


Immediate Horizon

by DEPECHEWIZARD



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: 'Afterimage' S7E03, Check out the linked album it's sick, Claustrophobia, Garak's POV, Garak's Past, Hallucinations, M/M, Mentions of Major Character Death, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-16 22:31:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20610425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DEPECHEWIZARD/pseuds/DEPECHEWIZARD
Summary: "He could be in Enabran’s closet, or slipping out of place in The Pit. Both scenarios empty all rationality from his mind. His body screams for some ending, but an ending never arrives.If only someone could remove him from this place; this crashing maelstrom of past and present colliding. If only he could remove himself, quivering and cowering in this horribly confined space."





	Immediate Horizon

**Author's Note:**

> This wonderful album inspired this more experimental piece: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1R2f4zZHZv8
> 
> Cardassia’s star is a red dwarf, relatively cool and dim by stellar classification standards, but nasty nonetheless if you’re caught out in the desert. Descriptions of Cardassia are mostly based off ‘A Stitch in Time.’ I’d recommend it to all you Garak fans if you haven’t come across it already. 
> 
> Spoilers for later seasons of DS9 and ASiT; this is set during ‘Afterimage.'

Garak has absolutely nothing in this world. 

Or rather, this space station, this _airlock._ He doesn’t even have his breath, not anymore; it steals from his lungs before he can right his brain, banish the fever of panic in his blood. As he screams, _begs_ for escape, _release,_ his fists burn, his throat burns as if he is running through the Mekar Wilderness once again; gasping for air-

He could be in Enabran’s closet, or slipping out of place in The Pit. Both scenarios empty all rationality from his mind. His body screams for some ending, but an ending never arrives. 

If only someone could remove him from this place; this crashing maelstrom of past and present colliding. If only he could remove _himself_, quivering and cowering in this horribly confined space. 

He will never escape this station, the weight of his existence here; crawling towards his late years with nobody to warm him-

His life is half measures; _yes,_ and these half measures of air cannot penetrate the crushing weight on his lungs. He is doubled over, now, knees quaking, legs threatening to give way-

A pair of arms are at his shoulders; steady and solid, and he is sinking to the floor, head pounding fit to burst-

It is then that he sees it, clear as anything; lying on his back, staring up at the weathered rock formations, the blinding white skies of midday. 

He has no shelter, no cover. _Where are his water rations?_ There is nothing at his side but scorching sand. The sky bears down, and he cannot move, cannot escape the sand searing his scales. There is no reprieve, nowhere to hide from the wide, blinding eye of the sun. _Someone will see him here._ But even when faced with punishment, with the _humiliation_ of defeat in store for him, he cannot save himself. He remains, splayed out on his back, burning alive in the gaze of the sun. 

But, suddenly, someone is _there_, cradling him in long arms. He is so weak, now, so lifeless under the blazing sky, that he pities them. To try to save his life is to welcome fruitless toil; the service of a man unable to escape from the path of Cardassia’s hulking star.

“Don’t try,” he rasps, lungs ready to collapse. “Please.” 

“I have to, Garak.” 

That voice is _so familiar_, and so close, washing over him like the warmest of the late summer rains. And _oh,_ he longs for the Cardassia of his youth. He longs for it as he longs for water; dying under the sun of the Mekar Wilderness, slipping away, cradled in these steady arms. 

His eyes crack open, ready to meet open skies, _and Julian is there_, an impenetrable mask blurring his sharp features; his bottomless eyes. Garak could slip away under that watchful countenance; disappear forever, beyond Julian’s slender arms and graceful fingers.

“Why did you leave, Doctor?” 

The question is barely audible on the stifling air. His snout blisters, his hands are flame. Julian cradles him, closer, and Garak wishes, fervently, that Julian is somehow death itself; here to remove him from his ceaseless _suffering-_

_“Impermissible sentiment,_ my dear Elim.”

“I left you drift away,” Garak croaks. He could be sinking into the sand; disappearing…

Darkness sets in from all sides, amidst the howling of the wind.

* * *

He comes round, head whirling; confusion pressing in. But above him, there is only Ezri Dax, her face swimming in space.

The sun, high above the Mekar sands, is gone. His skin is intact, scales unblemished. He shivers; that relentless sensation. 

“Doctor Bashir gave you a hypospray,” she begins. There is a small, steady hand at his shoulder; no less warm, in truth, but strange, _alien._

Julian is nowhere to be found, as ever. Garak _longs_ to sink beneath the surface, to drift away from the harsh glare of the sickbay. Once again, there is no cheap escape for him to cherish. His hands are empty. His mind, wrung and _exhausted_, is empty.

“You’ve been out for several hours,” Ezri tries anew. Garak is bound in silence. “Julian said there was a chance of hallucinations involved with that particular sedative.”

“That there were,” mumbles Garak. His voice comes out clumsily. 

“You’re seeing normally now?” He gives a slight nod. “What did you see? If- if that’s an appropriate question.”

“I’m afraid,” murmurs Garak, “that I’d rather _that_ remained private.”

Ezri doesn’t press the subject, and Garak is _eternally_ grateful. 

“Where is _our dear_ Doctor?” 

Ezri fixes him with one _long_ look. 

“His shift ended.”

“Ah. Nursing a synthale with Chief O’Brien, no doubt.”

“You seem very _preoccupied_ with his whereabouts. Much of the time, in fact.”

He narrows his eyes at her. “I wouldn’t say that.” 

“Why not?” She folds her arms. “I’ve wondered what happened between you two.”

“_You_ died,” says Garak, coldly.

“This isn’t about Jadzia, and you know it.” One long moment drags by. 

“It must be my _reptilian mindset_,” he allows. And that is enough. “If we could dispense with this topic, I would be most grateful.”

Garak _knows,_ that she _knows,_ of the clash of cultures; the strange phenomenon of two people, tied together; scrambling to recover dwindling common ground.

The truth of this hurts Garak like a flesh wound.

“I’d be happy to leave you alone with your thoughts, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

“Very much so. Thank you.” 

And she leaves, too, and Garak is once again swallowed by that sensation of confined space.

The blistering sun and strong arms of that delirious vision replay as he tucks the memory away; memorises it till it settles into his bones. It is all he has left of Julian, and yet-

somewhere, long ago now; Julian’s arms are open to him, and his eyes shine in the starlight as Garak weaves sweet tales of changing skies and endless sands. 

They could stay, all night like that.

They had time for such things, then. 


End file.
